


Better Thought a Fool

by pagesandpetrichor



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Babette ships it, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Future rating change, Look I changed the tags again, Lots of it takes place post-questline, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, The Listener is not the Dragonborn, This is basically a character study of Cicero, or she would be is she could be bothered to get the dumb rock for the pushy wizard, so much pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagesandpetrichor/pseuds/pagesandpetrichor
Summary: Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. An ancient and weighty title that speaks of her destiny. Silne doesn't like destiny. And yet she's drawn to the Brotherhood, to the tenants, and to the mad jester that is the Night Mother's Keeper. Now that the Brotherhood is thriving again in Dawnstar, Silne must decide the future of the organization. A rag-tag bunch of assassins hiding underground, or the most notorious guild in Tamriel that strikes fear in the hearts of all? And if that's not stress enough... what is she going to do about Cicero?





	1. The Games They Play

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a one-shot and then I kept posting more one-shots but we have a plot® starting in chapter 7. The first 6 chapters are non-chronological vignettes. Think of this first chapter as a prologue or a frame for chapters 2-6.  
> Enjoy and feedback is appreciated!

     Everything seemed to be _grey_ that day outside the little hut. From the craggy outcroppings to the dreary, weeping sky, the world was bathed in a colorless fog. Even the normally verdant grasses seemed to forget themselves amid the mud and muck of the landscape. Such weather was frustrating and tiresome to travel in and Silne was thankful for the hunter that had decided (or perhaps the gods had made the choice for them) to desert the little hut in the hills of the Reach.

  
     The hut itself was also grey; grey worn wooden walls, grey wooden floors, grey stone hearth. The only infusion of color came from the fire that crackled merrily away, giving off some much-needed warmth. It flowed through the tiny space, overcrowded between a bed and the cramped and cracked table, and dried the weary travelers within. A kettle over the hearth brimmed with the remains of a few bothersome mudcrabs, stewing in a grey nirnroot broth.

  
     “Listener will catch a cold if she doesn’t change out of her wet clothes.” Her travelling companion chides her from where he sits at the little table, scratching away with a quill in one of his journals.  
She sends him a glare and continues to prod at the soup. “Thanks for the reminder Cicero, but I’m not a child. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  
     He makes a sound of amusement but doesn’t contest her. He is as used to her annoyance with him as she is of his incessant worrying over her. “I’m trying to keep us warm and fed, if you don’t mind.”  
If she is truthful with herself, which she rarely is, she doesn’t mind the concern. It has been a very long time since anyone has bother to care whether she lived or died. She doesn’t think anyone has ever cared if she’s come down with a cold. Nevertheless, she keeps with the little game they play, of her being annoyed and him being impish and overbearing. It’s a defense from talking of heavier things, of the horrors they’ve both lived through. They’re both aware of it and both stubbornly ignore it.

  
     With a huff she pushes away from the cooking and stalks the short distance to where her knapsack sit on the bed. The bag, incidentally, is also wet but her spare clothes inside are only just slightly damp.

  
“Get out so I can change.”

  
      He scoffs from where he sits behind her and she hears him snap the little book closed. “The Listener, the kind, sweet Silne, would send Cicero out in the rain just to preserve her modesty? Not that, I, humble and respectful Keeper would look anyway! Honestly, I had not thought the Listener half so cruel and selfish-”

  
      She kicks the back of his chair, hard, but he is laughing. The red locks, which are cut shorter now than when she first met him, are still damp and he shakes his head as he laughs at her. She wonders, not for the first time, if he was such a mischievous little shit before he went mad. She suspects that he was.

  
“A compromise, maybe? Cicero will tend the soup and her highness can change quickly, yes?” She doesn’t reply and he doesn’t expect her to.

  
     Their manner of companionship hadn’t always been such a practiced routine. They had been fast friends first, united by a common goal. They had been utterly serious, unanimously focused. Then Mother spoke and Cicero snapped (again) and the sanctuary fell. It had been too much, all at once. When he had come back, emerging like a spectre out of the snowstorm in Dawnstar, she had wanted to be happy to have him back, to see him alive. But the shared enemy was vanquished and the prospect of rebuilding, together, was too weighty for her to face. They were too similar now, Mother’s lost and hopeless children who had seen too many Brothers and Sisters lost, too many sanctuaries fallen. It knit them together irrevocably and it made her want to run the way she had run when she was declared Listener.

  
     Except this time she brought him with her because there was no chance she could run from him but they could at least run from responsibility together, for a time. And so the game started and the rules seemed to write themselves: they didn’t speak of Falkreath or Cheydinhal or their dead comrades and they certainly didn’t speak of whatever the close companionship between them meant.

  
     Her armor was soaking wet and she was chilled to the bone but admit it she would not. The leather armor is stubborn in coming off, shrunken by the moisture. It is quite ruined now, not from a day in the rain, but from overuse and poor care. It is nicked and scratched in too many places and cracked from water damage. Had it really been so long since Astrid had offered it to her, gleaming, newly oiled and supple? The three years since had not been kind to any of them, least of all the battered armor she stuffs into the bottom of her bag. She pulls on a simple peasant’s dress, green and warm and most likely stolen though she can’t remember whose home she lifted it from.

  
     She sits beside Cicero on the hearth where he is adding some sort of spice to the soup, turning her grey and lifeless broth to a bubbling, sweet-smelling stew. Something she never would have predicted, the Imperial could cook. He hands her a steaming bowl and begins to ladle one for himself. Thunder booms outside.

  
“We won’t make it back to Dawnstar by Fridas.” He says.

  
“No we won’t.”

  
“We’re going to be terribly bored in this miserable hut for days.” He grins at her over his bowl. “Cicero will finally have time to sing you the ballad of the fair maid Nelly.”

  
“You sing that everyday!”

  
“Only the first verse, Listener! And there are 73 in all!” He begins cackling at the look on her face and she huffs, again, moving to sit at the table.

  
“I should have brought Babette instead.”

  
“Babette wouldn’t have killed so many Forsworn and they would’ve taken you captive. Or killed you. Or sent you to the Hagravens.”

  
She rolls her eyes though he is probably right. She would’ve been dead many times over if it wasn’t for him.

  
“If we are going to be stuck here for several days, I think I’m going to try to practice my Restoration for a while.”

  
He laughs lightly and joins her at the table. “The leader of the most notorious assassin’s guild in Tamriel, learning Restoration!” He lifts his eyes up again from the soup to meet hers, grinning. “I like it. It’s unusual.”

  
     She agrees and nods along but it’s another lie to herself, to him. She pretends she’s interested for the sake of it, or to alleviate boredom, or to rile up Babette who complains that it makes her potions useless. She can’t tell him how desperate and hopeless she had been in the Dawnstar sanctuary that day. That she, like most Nords, had scorned magic her entire life until that moment when she was faced with her own powerlessness over death. She was used to causing death, unflinchingly, but then all she had wanted was to heal, to mend the broken and bleeding jester that laughed, even as his lungs were filling with blood.  She had panicked, had prayed to any Aedra and Daedra that would listen that her pitiful potion of minor healing would be enough. She swallows thickly. She had pondered over too many taboo subjects today.

  
“You can’t sing while I’m practicing.”

  
“You are,” He punctuates the sentence by clinking his empty bowl down on the table. “Absolutely no fun at all.”

     Cicero offers to sleep on the floor as he always does. She as always, insists that they can both fit on the tiny twin bed and he doesn’t protest. They’ve been compelled to share beds at overcrowded inns for months and this is no different. She faces towards the wall, nearly touching it, making sure there is a sliver of air between them. She realizes that here is another lie, another taboo thought that has wormed its way into her mind. She doesn’t mind him sleeping beside her. It’s nice, really, to think that she is not alone when she falls asleep, that there is someone there when she rises. She almost, _almost_ , wishes that he would turn over and wrap his arms around her middle and hold her while she dreams. He would if she asked him to but that would ruin it because he would do anything she asked him to. And he wouldn’t do it of his own volition because he is the Keeper and she is the Listener and it breaks the game they play of not caring about anything. So she puts the wayward thought out of her mind and lets the crackling of the fire lull her to sleep.


	2. Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A snippet from Cicero's perspective of Silne before she became Listener. Also Silne's name is pronounced "Sill-nee". I initially got it off the internet when I was starting to play this character but now google doesn't seem to recognize that it's a name so idk.

            _Sanctuary_. A place of refuge, comfort, safety. Or it should have been. It was once, not this one, the one before and the one before that. _Home_. He missed them, the people that had been in them. He missed that they had felt normal even though there was nothing normal about those places.

            This home is too cold and not only from the climate. It is _wrong_. Too small, arrogant, independent. In a biting moment of clarity he realizes that maybe it is a bit too much like himself. But he is _devoted_ and they are not.

            Well, all but one. The blond haired Nord, the second one, the smaller one, the one he actually liked. She was utterly dedicated and _kind_. He wishes, _please Mother, hear poor Cicero’s plea,_ that the Night Mother would chose her, speak to her. There was none better. He would even relinquish his own desperate wish to be Listener if only Mother would chose _her_.

            The sanctuary is too quiet, the only sound is the waterfall in the main cavern, echoing off the stone. It’s a maddening, drowning sound. He needs to move to do _something_ other than sit here and pine.

          He removes himself from the crypt, down the steep stairs to the dining room. It is empty, all of the Siblings having been in their beds as he passed through the common sleeping area. All of them there but the Pretender and her dog and _her_. He hopes to run into her so he goes to the alchemy lab. She isn’t there and neither is the un-child. Only the big spider that scuttles in her little pen. Cicero bids the pet a hello and she blinks at him in return.

          He carries on in his search, out into the cavern. There she is, by the infernal waterfall. She sits cross-legged on the pebbled shore of the small pond, serene. The glow of the stained glass above her bathes her in red light, turning her hair bright copper. He wishes bitterly for a return to some sanity that he might speak with her without frightening her or annoying her. Perhaps the madness couldn’t bear that blame though, he’d never been good for honest conversation. Honey-worded lies sure, and he’d always been able to _charm_ women, but to speak to one such as this? He was at a loss.

         Better not to speak then and prove oneself a fool. Oh but that was a funny joke and he desperately wanted to laugh.

         She startles as he cannot suppress a chuckle. He expects her to turn on him in contempt as the others do but she only opens her eyes and regards him portentously. Her eyes, grey and hard as steel armor, are always haunting as though they are the sole guardians to some collection of secrets. To pluck them out, open them up, would they speak, speak the words of Mother perhaps? No but that was wrong, wrong, because then they wouldn’t look at him anymore and he couldn’t bear that.

         He sits beside her on the rocky ground and she doesn’t leave which heartens him greatly. Yes, she is kind and tolerant of him which is more than he could ask for.

“Do you ever sleep, Cicero?” She asks with true concern. He laughs because it is so funny that she cares.

“Difficult to sleep with wolves in your home, Silne.”

         She frowns and tosses a smooth round stone into the pool. The water ripples, red as blood. She picks at a fingernail, stares at the water again.

         He knows that her loyalties are a difficult subject. On one hand, she honors the Mother and Father, she respects the Tenets, even better she lives and breathes them. But there was a hurt in her past, or many, that Cicero didn’t know yet but he could tell that she desperately wanted a place in the _family_ Astrid had promised her. Silne tried too hard to accommodate everyone, to be liked. She didn’t want to disrespect Astrid because she was her superior but she also wanted Astrid to like her. She wanted her to be proud of choosing her as an initiate.

         Cicero thought she looked much younger than she was.

“Was there bad leadership in your last Sanctuary Cicero?” She asks so innocently, truly seeking his wisdom.

“No.” He lies because he cannot tell her about what happened to the last _Pretender_ that blasphemed against the Brotherhood. She would fear him or hate him, or worse, tell Astrid.

        Perhaps not though. Perhaps that was his own paranoia that he must diligently _squash, stab, silence!_ if he wanted this dear sister to remain his ally. He watches her, her face upturned to the sigil of Sithis. She looks as though she is bathing in the light and he sends another silent prayer to the  Mother. _Pick her!_

“I…” She falters, tosses another rock. “I studied the Brotherhood for so long. Is it… wrong that I’m disappointed?” The Nord sighs and drops her head. “Is it, I mean… is it irreverent, or something?”

         It is her turn to watch him as he presses his lips together and ponders the question “No. Maybe it would be if this were a… proper sanctuary, but in the state of things, I… Cicero is relieved to hear you say so. I am disappointed as well.”

“I liked Astrid, you know, before you showed up.” She chuckles. “Of course I knew she was running things wrong but there were fewer opportunities for her to show her true colors before you arrived.”

“You know that is the job of the jester. To reveal the true self of those in power, to challenge authority. Of course he cannot be held accountable as no one takes him seriously.”

        She is unused to hearing him speak so slowly, in a deep tone that sounds so… so _normal_. A chill runs up her spine as she gets the distinct impression that the man sitting beside is quite sane. His eyes glint in the dim light, as dark as the ebony dagger he carries. Silne knows his ire would never be directed towards her but she wonders at the snaking feeling that tugs in her abdomen.

        Then the moment passes and he is humming and smiling, a fool. She shakes herself and picks up another pebble out of the water.

“Yes, well, I see that Astrid isn’t right for this sanctuary but we can’t do anything about it yet now can we?” He enjoys how she says we. Yes, she is firmly on his side, on Mother’s side.

“No. We need to wait, make a plan. Cicero isn’t sure what to do either, honestly.”

          She laughs lightly. “Well that’s reassuring! We’ll think of something the makes everyone happy and keeps the peace, surely.” He raises his eyebrows at her suggestion and she finds heat rising in her cheeks. “Well I don’t intend on killing anyone and breaking a Tenant!”

“Sometimes Purification is necessary, Silne.”

         But he’s pushed too hard and she is agitated. The blond pushes herself up off the ground and fidgets with a buckle on her armor. “Anyway I need to get to bed. I’m leaving for a contract tomorrow, we can speak more on this later.” She hurries past him, up the stairs to her bed in the common area.

          Cicero sighs, kicks at the water’s edge. _Stupid fool_. Even if his new Dark Sister is a wonderful murderer, she is flighty and far too kind to hear words like _purification_  without blinking. Maybe, maybe after a little more time. If Mother told her? But Mother hadn’t spoken yet, though there was still time. Would she chose? No, she waits, she picks her own time. Her own Listener that is not Cicero. Never humble Cicero who only waits and worries and tries to listen! Too much worrying, so many thoughts. Could you stab thoughts? Make them retreat like enemies at the end of a blade? Back them into a dark corner of the stupid broken brain? He is tired, so very tired, but even as he settles into the creaky wooden bed he can’t find sleep. Only silence and, like the whisper on a warm wind, the faintest whiff of laughter.  


	3. Things Lost and Things Found

 

~.~

 

Silne unsheathes the plain steel dagger from its scabbard. It is a simple weapon, without enchantments or adornments. It would not hold up in a dual but it is perfect for what she’s about to do. 

The air is heavy and unseasonably hot in the middle of Second Seed. Her hair sticks to her neck beneath her hood. There’s the faintest breeze coming in through one of the high windows; it brings with it the smell of salt and fish, the sound of chirping birds. She can hear the bustle of the city outside; the merchants closing their stands for the day, children playing in the streets, workers making their way home from the fishery. It is utterly ordinary, complacent. 

Golden arcs of late-afternoon sunlight cut through the shadows on the floor. The dagger glints in this light as she grips it in her simple leather gloves. The dagger isn’t the true weapon, however. No, the weapon is her cunning, her ability to turn to shadow, to sweep across the wooden floors as silently as the grave. She melds with the corner of rooms, times her footsteps to the clinking of the spoon in the cook pot. Soon she is a hair's breadth away.  

And then she is gone, gone into the dying sunlight, out the back door and into the canal, as a young woman summons the guards. As she catches her breath beneath one of the docks she can hear the entire city coming to the alarm.

_ The old crone’s been murdered! _

_ Her throat slit in the middle of the kitchen! _

_ The children, none of them saw? No one saw anything? _

The nord woman ducks under water again, dives beneath the gate, and then she is swimming across Lake Honrich. The water is too reflective in the flare of the setting sun for the woman to be detected. She collapses, unseen beneath a tree at the water’s edge and from there she watches and listens. The shouting and commotion doesn’t last for long. She’s done the city a service really. As she stands and begins her long journey she feels refreshed and not just from the lake water on her flushed skin. No, this was deeper, a truth about herself revealed. 

She rings out her hair, replaces the hood, and begins the long journey to Windhelm.

 

  
~.~

 

She smiles at how easy it had been. Of course the nature of her target had made it easier, mean old hag. She hopes that poor Constance can handle the children all on her own, but anything would be better than living under the thumb of Grelod the Kind.

The journey to Windhelm is not easy and she lets out a string of curses as she marches through Darkwater Crossing. Damnable place had been the start of all her troubles.

She tries not to dwell on the events that have taken place since her last time here, months ago. She hardly believes the outrageous things that have happened to her and some days she wonders if she’s truly gone mad. The scars littering her body, however, tell her otherwise. She puts it out of her mind and continues ever North.

She’s not relieved at all to be inside the formidable stone walls of Windhelm. Even in the warmth of spring the city has lingering piles of snow everywhere, icy and unyielding as it’s inhabitants. Just within the gate, one of her kinsman berates several Dunmer for one thing or another.

She feels the sting of the Dunmers’ gaze on her as they note her race. She tries to send them an apologetic smile as she ducks into the alley way.

The Arentino residence is as dilapidated as it was during her last visit. She wonders what on Nirn the poor boy is doing to feed himself or keep warm. There certainly isn’t any stock in the pantry as she enters.

Aventus nearly bowls her over at the top of the stairs. His expression is so changed from before where he was far too somber and desperate for his years. Now he is positively giddy, throwing his arms around her and giggling childishly. 

“I knew you could do it! I just knew it! I knew the Dark Brotherhood would save me!”

Apparently word of her deed had made it to Windhelm.

“Yes,” she says, trying to disentangle herself from his fearsome hug. “Grelod the Kind is dead.”

“Here!” He turns away from her quickly, digging through a chest against the far wall. “Payment, as promised! It’s an old family heirloom, you should be able to get something for it.”

He hands her what looks to be little more than a dusty old plate. She takes it gingerly and tucks it into her knapsack. Silence falls over the unlikely pair and Aventus shifts nervously from foot to foot.

“Where will you go now?” 

He shrugs and looks up at her and then back to the floor. She sighs, knowing that the job isn’t truly over yet.

“I can escort you back to Riften, if you wish.”

He lights up again and launches himself at her and this time she hesitantly hugs him back. She’s never really been good with children before but she can’t leave him here to fend for himself. She knows too well the life of a beggar orphan and she doesn’t wish that for him. 

It will take them roughly three days to reach Riften on foot and she can’t fathom how the boy had made the journey by himself. In their first day alone they’re nearly killed by a sabre cat. Silne is thankful she thought to bring along a few paralysis potions.

They make camp the second night in Shor’s Stone. Aventus is eager to befriend the miners who seem entertained to have a child around for once. She takes the opportunity to do some much needed thinking. 

Away from the campfire, she pulls several books from her bag, along with the letter.

 

_ As instructed, you are to eliminate Silne by any means necessary. She may go by the name Kit in Riften. The black sacrament has been performed- somebody wants this poor fool dead. _

_ We’ve already received payment for the contract. Failure is not an option.  _

 

_ -Astrid _

 

Silne smooths out the crease for the hundredth time, wondering who could possibly want her dead.  _ Or rather who didn’t? _

The fact that they knew the name she used with the Guild was deeply troubling. Had someone betrayed her? But she couldn’t think of anyone who knew both her names. Which meant that someone had to have been watching her. 

She folds the letter along the well-worn edges and slips it into the pages of “ _ A Kiss, Sweet Mother” _ . She turns her focus onto the other books, “ _ Sithis” _ ,  _ “Sacred Witness _ , and  _ “The Brothers of Darkness” _ . All of them she’d stolen at various points in her journeys. The covers were cracked and faded, the pages worn. But they couldn’t tell her why someone wanted her dead.

What they did tell her though was nearly more intriguing. Of death, of chaos, of nothing, of  _ everything _ . She almost wished another assassin would come after her so she could ask them about their order. She was hungry for anything she could find about the Brotherhood, Sithis, and the Night Mother. It made Nocturnal and the Thieves Guild feel very far away and in truth she wasn’t really very eager to return to them. 

 

But return they did the following afternoon. Unlike her last time in Riften, Silne now entered in full view of all, Aventus in tow. The denizens of the city greeted her and shot curious glances at the Imperial boy. Of course Aventus had created quite a reputation for himself around Skyrim but no one would dare think her involved. No, they were unsurprised that Kit, the helpful stranger that had settled in Riften months ago, would go out of her way to bring the Arentino boy home. 

He was ecstatic to see his friends again and Constance thanked her warmly for bringing him back safely. With the task done, she slips into the Bee and Barb to seek out her  _ other _ motivation for coming back to Riften.  

He sits on a bench by the back door, sipping some mead and talking animatedly to Talen-Jai. The Imperial lights up when he sees her crossing the room and quickly stands to embrace her.

“I was beginning to worry you’d gotten yourself killed without me!” Marcurio holds her close in the middle of the crowded inn and her face flushes as she feels the patrons staring at them.

“I had business to attend to, Marc. But I did miss you.” She relents.

“Of course you did! But I would be amiss if I didn’t say Riften is rather dull without you.” Marcurio is handsome, tall for an Imperial, and dangerous. She had saved up a week’s earnings with the Guild to hire him to help her take care some Frostbite spiders but it was only an excuse to spend time with him. And luckily he had been all too eager to join her, declining any payment. She liked that he made her laugh and that he didn’t mind her line of work. Would he mind about Grelod? She hoped not.

She leads him out of the inn to the docks outside the city. They sit side by side with their bare feet in the water, watching the surface ripple a the movement of the fish below.

“Talen-jai and Keerava and getting married next week.”

“Are they? I’m glad.” She says, looking out to the island where she had hidden after the kill.

“You had ought to be. You’re the reason he proposed in the first place.”

“Hmm.”

“Kit?” He angles his body towards her and she shakes her focus back to him. What had he been saying? That’s right, she  _ was _ happy for the Argonian couple but she felt so distant now. Something had changed when her dagger found the soft flesh of the old woman’s throat. 

Riften had been her home. She was Kit, the simple farm girl turned thief, nothing more. She was going to marry Marcurio once she stopped being stubborn and remarked on the Amulet he’d been wearing plainly for weeks now. Hadn’t it only been a few days since she had teased him, asking about the Amulet of Julianos, or was it Zenithar? It seemed like a different life.

“Kit?” He says again and she realizes that she had ignored him a second time. “Where are you tonight?”

She sighed heavily, running her fingers through the thick blond hair that the warm wind tried to tangle in further knots. The air brought with it the heavy smell of fish and algae.

“Just thinking.”

“Oh. Well knowing you that should take a while.” He snickers and wraps his arm around her. Normally she would laugh or possibly push him into the lake but she isn’t in a joking mood. She wonders why she’d been excited to see him in the first place. Did she think everything would just return to normal?

No, she realizes, she needed to see him because she needs to know. Before she can make another decision she needs to  _ know _ .  

“Marc?” Her voice is unnaturally quiet to him and he can’t think of another time when she’d been so serious. He doesn’t come back with a sarcastic retort, he only waits for her to continue.

“I need to tell you something.” He answers with another bout of silence. “I need to know if you’re going to think less of me for it. Because I’m not sorry I did it.”

She chances a glance at his face. He looks terrified but she if she’s to marry him, she needs to say it. And why should he shy away? They’d slaughtered bandits by the dozens and he knew full well what a heinous old bitch Grelod was anyway. The thought gives her the courage to blurt it out.

“I killed Grelod.”

His brow furrows and his mouth opens but nothing comes out. Then he jerks away from her, stumbling to his feet.

“ _ You _ did that? Kit they found her in a pool of her own blood. She was stabbed in the heart and had her throat slit. Don’t joke with me like this, it’s sick.”

The planks of the dock may as well have fallen under her feet. “I’m not joking! And if there was anybody in Skyrim who deserved a bloody death it was her!” 

“She was butchered. Hell, Kit, you could’ve taken her before the guards so she could’ve been tried. And why would you do it now when there’ve been so many rumors about that Arenteno boy?” 

She doesn’t answer him because the answer is already there for him to deduce.

“Gods, the Brotherhood Kit? Stealing is one thing but murder?”

He scowls at her, his eyes equal parts fury and fear. He pulls the Amulet of Mara from his neck and tosses it at her feet.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m reacting this way but I can’t. I can’t-” 

She walks past him, up the wooden steps and back into the city. Leaving him and the discarded Amulet on the docks.

She should be sad but it feels like a great weight off her shoulders. She doesn’t go down to the cistern to recover her belongings. She has a spare dress in her knapsack as well as her books and the steel dagger. She needs nothing else as she exits the gates, not knowing where she will go next, only that she must go and not look back.  


	4. A Stranger on the Road

~*~

Cicero had always liked horses. There was something noble about them, even when he had ridden away from city guards after spilling fresh blood. He could close his eyes as the horse galloped on and envision that he was flying and all would be well. The horse never cared what he did. They just did their jobs and Cicero respected them terribly for it.

But he had to admit he was disappointed when the ship docked in Dawnstar and the only beasts for purchase looked more like big hairy cattle than the slender-bred equines of Cyrodiil. Oh well, it would have to do.

Ghost, he called the big bay gelding. Because he had been purchased at the Sea of Ghosts and Cicero liked the macabre name. 

Ghost was rotten for conversation though. And Cicero had been chattering at him for hours now. The horse only blinked his big black eyes in return. Frustrating.

It had been four hours since Cicero asked Loreius the second time to fix his broken wheel and six hours in total from the time the thing just  _ popped _ off the wagon. What was a Keeper to do when his Mother needed Keeping but the damnable farmer wouldn’t help? Cicero checked the Keeping Tomes just in case there was a section about difficult farmers but there wasn’t one. Cicero could certainly kill him, this was a justifiable threat to Mother wasn’t it? But then who would fix the wheel?

“ARGH.” He flung himself dramatically beside the wagon, leaning against one of the good wheels. At least this one could behave.

Afternoon was turning to evening, making the shadows draw out long before him. Cicero missed this time of day. Too many days spent missing the long shadows and disappearing sun. He longed to become one of the shadows again in dark leather armor, a dagger between Loreius’s ribs and a soul to Sithis! 

Blasphemy! A Keeper should be happy to Keep and he was, Cicero is sorry Mother!

The silhouette of Dragonsreach looms in the distance. Close enough to walk but too far to drag a coffin. 

He couldn’t steal the tools to fix it himself. Well the stealing he could do but the fixing was the problem. Cicero had never been a wheelwright. He had only been Keeper and before that an assassin and before that an errand boy and before that, well, he had been a child. So no experience with wheels. 

He was lamenting never having learned the trade when a waif of a woman passed by him on the road. She walked with her head down, intentionally avoiding him. 

“Wait!” He called after her and she quickened her pace. “Does the stranger know anything about repairing wheels?”

She halted her retreat and slowly turned to him. It looked like she was swaying with the cold First Seed wind as she shifted from side to side in indecision. She held a scrap of what might’ve once been a scarf around her head, taming a mass of curling blond hair. She regarded him, her brow furrowed, glancing between him and the cart, the horse and the coffin, and finally from his hat to the dagger at his hip. He didn’t understand what there was to be confused about.

“Your wheel is broken.” She said plainly. Her voice sounded unused so she cleared it. Cicero looks at her for another moment. He’d been forced out of necessity to converse with several people in his flight from Cheydinhal. All of them had been in a rush to get rid of him (especially Loreius!) but she doesn’t mutter an excuse and head back on her way. He wonders what it was that made her stop in the first place. Seeing another soul down on their luck?

“The road was so very bumpy but Cicero must get his Mother to Falkreath and then the damndest wagon wheel POPPED right off!”

She gathers her scarf tighter around her and steps closer to examine the cart. She is wearing a peasant's dress that hangs loosely from her frame. Cicero think she probably hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks. That puts an idea in his head. 

"Go to the farm, the Loreius farm, just over there off the road. Talk to Loreius, he has tools, he can help me, but he won't. He refuses!"

She looks worryingly up at the farmhouse.

"Convince Loreius to fix my wheel. Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you. With coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!" Yes, that has the intended effect. Cicero watches as something very interesting happens to her. Where a moment ago she looked timid and unassuming, she now straightens her shoulders and a look of resolve settles over her face.

“It will be done.” She disappears up the hill and it is only minutes later that she returns with Lorieus, a bag of tools on his arm. How did she do it Mother? Oh, but he doesn’t care. Mother can go to her new home now! 

“Oh, Cicero thanks you kind stranger! And his poor Mother too!” He shakes her hands- tiny, cold little things without any gloves- vigorously but she doesn’t seem put off by him. 

“You’re welcome.” She says with a hesitant smile. “Your mother, is she here?”

He laughs, loudly. “Is she here? Oh, ha, that is a good one, kind stranger. Very funny. But yes, Mother is here but she’s quite dead.”

“Oh.” 

“Cicero is taking her to a new crypt in Falkreath, to our family there! And you’ve helped us so. Oh!” He rummages through one of Ghost’s saddle bags. “As promise, honest coin for an honest deed.”

She takes the coin without hesitation and ties the purse to her belt. Cicero does not miss the dagger hidden in the folds of her dress. He wonders again how she got Loreius down here so quickly. 

“Well I hope you have a safe journey. There are lots of bandits between here and Falkreath.”

Oh good. Lots of bandits meant lots of fun. All in the name of defending Mother of course.

“Does the kind stranger have a name?”

She is already walking up the road, the wind whipping around her. He might have imagined it but he thinks he hears her say it: “Silne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one but at least I'm posting! How do you guys feel about my using present tense? Or POV switches? I only have 10 days left and the final semester of my bachelor's degree will be over with! Then lots more chapters after that; I already have quite a few written and I have half an idea for a plot. I'm still scared of posting a full on fic as I don't have a good track record actually finishing stories and I really don't want that to happen this time.


	5. Losing Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ladies and men, did you want some fuckin uhhhh angst? Some sad boi™ Cicero? Cicero being utterly and completely sane and having no idea what to do about it? Cicero backstory? Yep, it's a good menu today pals

~*~

Perhaps Cicero should have expected this. Hadn’t he wanted to bring it about himself anyway? But his precious Listener, telling him in a soft and grave voice that their siblings were dead… it made a feeling pull in his chest that he had not felt in a very long time. 

He hadn’t even liked them. Insolent, and unkind to him, he should be happy that they are receiving their due in the Void now. But this clawing feeling is not happy. It spreads in his chest, punctures him like a dagger and even when he takes a deep, even breath, it doesn't go away. A caper around the entry room would surely make him feel better but his legs are leaden and there is not the faintest carry of laughter in his mind. Odd. 

The Listener finishes telling him about the fire and soldiers and death. About how they buried the siblings and moved mother here. He knows Mother is here. He has been waiting anxiously to return since he saw the three of them bring her by carriage days ago. He assumed the Listener had executed their plan. Surely it meant the faithful had returned and Mother would reward them aboundingly. That was not what happened.

He furrows his brow, trying to understand why he feels this ache. Had the Listener done what they were planning to, the blasphemers would be dead anyway so why was this different? But the words _Penitus_ _Occulatus_ and _sanctuary_   _destroyed_ echo in his lonely mind. 

Is it, sadness then that weighs on him? It has been years since the Jester had allowed himself to feel sad. Angry and frustrated, yes, but this was hurt that pulled at him.

But why such a foreign feeling now? He truly was glad to hear that Astrid and her dog were dead. The elf meant little to him but Festus and Veezara had been alright. No, he wasn’t grieving them then. 

He looked around the little room they stood in, the ancient walls covered in thick moss and the torn banners of his home, his religion, his life. This tiny little room that held only four people, the last remaining children. His Listener is watching him, her face is gentle and open as it always is when she speaks to him. She waits, likely expecting proclamations of joy.

He can find none. The Jester is utterly silent, retreating to some back corner of the psyche, leaving the man flailing and alone. 

“I- I’m going to see Mother.” He brushes past the three of them who he knows watch with stunned expressions. He is stunned too. That voice felt like an old friend from the past but he hopes it does not stay for long. He is desperate to laugh.

Down the worn steps and to the right, that’s where they have put her. The iron tomb is locked but it seemed someone had polished it recently. Little votive candles encircle her feet.

“Mother?” When he closes his eyes, he does not see the corpse he has dedicated his life to. He sees the mousy haired woman who gave him eyes the color of honey. Even in his memory she looks stern and worn, those eyes holding no love for her bastard son. 

She was nothing to him. A tavern whore, long dead now. So why did he think of her? He had walled off the memories of his past now for a long while, but the snippets float past his eyes now as he braces a hand against the sarcophagus to hold himself upright.

Lillian. The only one his siblings he had ever given a damn about. He couldn’t care less when his older sisters had started taking strangers to bed with them to try to make some money to feel all of his harlot mother’s fucking children. But Lillian deserved better.

He remembered the feel of the man’s blood on his hands, the metallic smell as it coated the sheets. Lillian had not balked once at his obvious lack of remorse. She had thanked him. He was fifteen.

He was recruited a week later. He send the earnings of his first contract to her, only her. The rest of them could starve.

Had it truly been twenty years? Twenty years of service, unwavering dedication, servitude? The hurt was stronger in his chest, but more to it now. Bitterness. That was it. 

He opened his eyes, regarded the intricate designs of the coffin that he had committed to memory by now. He wasn’t sad in the slightest for the dead siblings Silne had told him of, he was sad for himself.

He was desperate for the feeling to stop. For the Jester to save him, to carry this ghost of his former self off to some secluded area of his mind where he didn’t have to think or feel. For the first time in a decade, he felt silly in the faded motley.  

Three. Three sanctuaries he had seen fall. Three bitter defeats and for what? His youth and sanity, for  _ what _ ? For a crumbling old sanctuary and a mother who had never spoken to him, never showed that she loved him anymore than the tavern whore from Bruma? 

His eyes are hot as he stumbles back from the sarcophagus. He regrets the thought but that does not make it less true. 

“Cicero?” Her voice is so soft and kind. It is the hundredth time he has wondered, since that day on the road so long ago, how she was able to kill with such ease when she only ever presented herself as warmth to him. She descends the aged steps, tentatively approaches him. He hates to see her hesitation and he knows she is waiting to see if he is going to turn volatile. But the Jester and his tendency for petulant fits is long gone and besides, he would never harm her. Even when he had been bleeding and broken in the room below, his threats against her had been hollow. He would’ve let her send his soul to the void without raising a hand against her.

If he could choose any hand to die by, it would be hers.  

He rushes forward in a graceless haste. She stumbles back at the sudden onslaught but he is too quick, already encircling his arms around her and pulling her into him. She relaxes after a moment, putting her arms around his waist and returning the embrace. How does he tell her, when he is drowning then, that she is the only thing pulling him back to the shoreline? 

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know who he’s apologizing to. Her? The dead siblings under the rubble in Falkreath? Mother? He is thankful that she is shorter than him so she does not see the tears that track down his cheeks. 

“Cicero where is this coming from? I didn’t think you would care at all, honestly…” Her words are muffled by the collar of his motley.

“I’ve failed.” He says hoarsely. “The Brotherhood’s fallen and they will find us here and it has all been for  _ nothing _ .” 

“Cicero, Cicero, look at me.” She pushes on his chest, forces him to release her enough to meet his eyes. Her hand comes up to his cheek, small but calloused fingers brushing away the wetness there. “The Brotherhood still stands. Small, yes, but we are here, and we have Mother, and half the Empire knows by now that we just murdered the damn emperor of Tamriel.”

“You did it then?” He practically whispers. “ _ You _ did?”

A grin spreads across her face. She nods with her bottom lip between her teeth, proud. 

He feels the corners of his own mouth turn up. Her hand is still on his cheek. He leans into the warmth.

She stiffens and the hand drops. He is halfway through stammering an apology to her when her eyes glass over, her whole body still. He has seen her do this before and it returns an iota of hope to him. 

When the moment passes, her happy smile returns and she takes his hands in her own.

“Mother says that she loves you Cicero, and she is so very grateful for everything that you’ve done.” 

He squeezes her hands, feeling the ache in his chest ease. When she squeezes back, he laughs. It is a low and broken thing, very different from the high pitched delight of the Jester but it is a laugh all the same.

"Cicero, please don't ever doubt what you have done for the Brotherhood." She dips her chin, looking at the floor rather than him. "Or for me."

She releases his hands and he can see the slightest flush of red along her neck as she turns away. Blushing, for him.

"Thank you."

She only nods. "I'm sorry, I have to go into Dawnstar for supplies. But tomorrow- tomorrow, would you accompany me to Riften? I'd like to contract the Guild to help us clean up this place."

"Of course. Cicero will follow the Listener to the Void and back if she asks."

"Thank you, Keeper." Then she is gone, a blur of dark forest green as her traveling cloak trails her back up the stairs. Cicero shakes himself. He needs to prepare for tomorrow if they're making such a long journey. Mother hasn't been oiled in so very long. The Jester gives him a lovely tune to hum as he sets to work. 

~*~  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI so more author's notes bc i do what i want. I love you 3000 @ Parn for your compliments and I hope y'all don't mind I took Cicero in a very different direction here. Also he needed a hug so I gave him a hug. More chappies comin, I just finished school (woot) and I'm getting over the plague so there's lots of time on the horizon to write. Love y'all


	6. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It shouldn't have taken a month to get this out and I'm sorry. I wrote probably four chapters in that time (none of which are this one lol) that I just wasn't happy with. I think the story was trying to tell me that it wanted a plot, so here's the start to that... This picks up right where the first chapter left off.

~*~

 

The rain kept up for a full day and night before the temperature dropped sharply. Silne watched as the world outside, previously grey and melting, turned the unyielding white of Skyrim’s winter. The puddles in the deeply trod ground outside turned to treacherous traps, lying wait until a thin snow cover. They would need another few inches of snowfall in order to travel safely.

Thankfully, this was Skyrim in Frostfall and the conditions yielded themselves on the third day in the overcrowded hut.

Silne had been true to her intentions and spent the majority of the time sitting in the middle of the twin bed, a book balanced on her knee, dragging the Blade of Woe across her palm. The blade, razor sharp, took little force to split the skin there. Watching the blood well up, she focused her thoughts, and energy- warm, glowing golden in her mind- until it took form over her palm and the wound closed as though it had never been. Again and again she wounded and healed as the weather changed outside.

Cicero drifted. From the table with his journal, to the hearth, out into the cold and wet to gather wood. He was uncharacteristically quiet, whether lost in his own thoughts or trying not to bother her, she wasn’t sure. Although a Cicero that didn’t constantly test her near-limitless patience was a forigen idea.

She was always patient. She needed to be to stalk a contract across half of Skyrim, to meld with shadows in alleyways, wait for a perfectly placed strike. She was good at being patient up until the point that she wasn’t and the dam broke.

So, when dawn broke, snowy and clear on Loredas morning, Silne reconciled that it was time to begin building a new dam. She had wanted to dawdle on their way home, cross through Morthal, gather alchemy ingredients in the swamps as they made their way through Hjaalmarch. But now wasn’t the time. It was time to face the burden of a dynasty on her shoulders again.

She donned the ruined and cracked leather armor, followed by her deep green travelling cloak and then they were off, trudging across the unforgiving landscape.

Cicero’s silence worried her. Especially now, when she would be happy for an opportunity to argue with him rather than let worry consume her thoughts. Yet he walked beside her, looking resolutely ahead, not so much as a hum on his lips. It was usually bad news when he got like this. A sign that the Jester had left him, that he was flailing, alone, in his own mind. It had been happening intermittently since Falkreath fell a year and a half ago. Some might have considered it progress that the internal voice that haunted a madman was quieting but Silne knew better.

“Where are you today Keeper?” She asked him gently as they reached the shore of the sprawling wetlands of Hjaalmarch.

She is an expert in the speech of others. She had always been able to use her voice, the art of acting, tone, syntax, to her advantage. It made her very perceptive of others’ lying. But any common idiot would have caught that his answering chuckle and “Beside the Listener, of course!” were forced.

He quickly changed the subject. “Nazir will be angry, will he not?”

“He’ll probably threaten to string me up in the torture chamber.”

She had hoped for riotous laughter but he only scoffs and picks his way through the bog, careful steps finding the safest (and driest) path through.

“I know it was hardly far, given I told you we were going to clear out a Forsworn camp but I thought you’d be more upset with me too.”

The line of his shoulders tightens almost imperceptibly. “Where the Listener goes, the Keeper will follow.”

“That’s bullshit Cicero and you know it.”

He doesn’t respond but one curled boot slips into the marsh.

“Regardless of titles, you are my friend and I want your honest opinion. This expedition was childish and irresponsible from the start.”

A long silence with the distant sound of Slaughterfish moving beneath the water. “Yes.”

She sighs heavily, frustrated with him and the conversation and herself. She had known she was being foolish from the minute the idea had sprung in her head. She’d found him in the armory, proposed an adventure she knew he wouldn’t refuse (told herself that the Hagraven feathers and talons were desperately necessary for her potions), and they had been off, galavanting across Skyrim as though there wasn’t a war going on and an empire in shambles with the Brotherhood at the heart of it.

Mother could’ve chosen anyone. Someone pragmatic and focused like Nazir. But she had chosen Silne, a stupid girl who had never been in charge of anything in her life. Perhaps Mother just liked for fools to be in charge.

That wasn’t fair though, Silne thought, watching the bells on Cicero’s cap bob slightly with each step he took. Cicero had far more sense that she could ever hope to. But that thought rekindled her anger that he had just gone along with it and let her act like a petulant child who didn’t want to do her chores.

~*~

They travel in silence until they break at midday at the site of an ancient ruin. Silne hopes a horde of draugr will rush out so she has something to take her frustration out on but the afternoon is quiet and still save for the snowfall. They’re both freezing from stepping into the frigid water on occasion so Silne starts a fire, placing their boots beside it to dry. Even with the delay they will arrive in Dawnstar faster than if they’d taken the circuitous route around the swamp. Though now it doesn’t seem the speed is worth it to her aching toes.

“Cicero, what am I going to do?”

He stops fiddling with the stitching on his scabbard, meets her with eyes the color of honeycomb.

“You do your job Silne. You Listen to Mother, give the contracts to Nazir. Get frustrated every few months and take me along for a killing spree. You have no personal stake in the issue.”

She hates that he’s right, hates that his gaze is so unclouded. She hates that his voice is even instead of shrill and that he used the word “me” in place of his monniker.  It’s easier when he acts like a fool and she can tell herself that he doesn’t know. Of course he knows, he has more sense than she can hope to. She hates that she lies to herself about him, that she makes him an accomplice in her stupidity. Suddenly her toes don’t feel so cold. She banks the fire, pulls on the damp boot and then they’re off again.

~*~

They reach Dawnstar a few hours after nightfall. The have a run in with a pack of wolves and leave their bodies in the snow. They don’t speak to each other, even as Silne heals the long gash left by a bite on his arm.  

The Black Door welcomes them inside with it’s eerie whisper. The entry room, once full of rotting tables and moss, has been scrubbed down to the polished stone, red and black banners hanging crisply along the walls. It smells of fresh wood, newly made tables lining the walls, holding an array of lanterns and bouquets of Nightshade.

Even at the late hour, candlelight, the smell of stew, and laughter find their way up the stairs. Time to descend, then.

Cicero goes first, sensing her hesitation and brushing past her in an uncharacteristically cold move. He disappears out of sight; going to Mother likely.

The rowdy voices halt and her footsteps echo as she makes her way to the stairs overlooking the main chamber. Everyone is home tonight, Nazir standing at the cookpot, Babette seated at her head of the table (a place of honor for the eldest member), and the seven, no there’s eight now, initiates seated around the great dining table. Though Riadriel and Kharrn have been members for well over a year and probably shouldn’t be lumped in with the fresh bloods.

They watch their leader warily, none have the place to say anything save for Nazir and Babette, neither of which care to make a scene. Nazir only sends her a hard glare and offers a bowl of stew through gritted teeth. She delines though she’s starving and retreats to the solace of her room. Tomorrow they will talk and perhaps she’ll grovel with as much dignity as she can and all will be set right.

She’s flooded with another fresh wave of guilt to see that the braziers in her room have been kept burning in her absence. The room is large but warm, the walls adorned with weapons she’s collected, chests overflowing with treasures, books, maps, alchemy ingredients spilling over every available surface. Despite her reluctance, it’s good to be home. Even better to crawl into a warm bed and delay her worries until tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHy is Silne acting like a dumb bitch? What's wrong with our boi?? Next chapter likely out Sunday night/ wee hours of Monday morning because I'm on nights and what else do I have to do.
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> (also I hate when authors do this but I'm doing it anyway: reviews really keep me going and let me know what you guys want to see out of this story. I really don't know if this is absolute garbage or not so tell me. love you)


	7. Family Feuding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLOT IS HAPPENING

~*~

 

There was morning. Or something like morning because there were no windows in the Sanctuary and none of them kept normal hours. With morning was waking, slow and belabored and Silne was so very warm beneath the furs. Everything felt surreal and familiar, like she was a child where her understanding of the world was muddled and memories forgotten too easily. It was safe and she wanted to stay.

But reality was a persistent bastard.

As persistent as the whisper close at her ear, raspy and otherworldly but undoubtedly familiar. She reached for it with her mind, strained for it to grow into words both in her head and beside her ear but it hovered just out of reach, indiscernible. That was how today would be then.

Silne tossed off the furs and sheets, hissing as her bare feet hit the cold stone floor. She needed to talk to Delvin about some rugs for the place.

Rugs weren’t her most pressing matters at the moment though. There was Nazir to deal with, initiates who looked up to her who’s trust she had broken. A new initiate to meet, training to oversee, contracts to collect from Mother and relay to her Speaker. Oh, and the future of Skyrim and the Empire. Couldn’t forget about that.

The main hall is thankfully empty, the long table cleaned and polished after dinner last night. The table and pantry along the far wall are set according to Nazir’s exacting specifications, clean dishes stacked with equal spacing, baskets of produce overflowing. When she met him, she never would have expected the Redguard to be such a mother hen, following the initiates around, demanding that they clean up after themselves and leave his cooking alone.

She takes a cutting knife and a bowl of potatoes and gets to chopping. She is too nervous to let her hands be idle. And while she is no cook, she knows her way around a blade and soon has a heap of potatoes ready for the pan. There is a long line of exotic spices on a shelf that is out of her reach anyway. Besides, they’re all unlabeled and presumably expensive.

“It is a wonder you and the Keeper do not starve on the road, Listener.” The voice is easy, nonchalant if there ever was one, but warm with a hint of an accent that spoke of trees and rain and wildness. Riadriel.

“He cooks.” She answers, still perusing the spices for anything that looks familiar. Or even just some salt.

 “Obviously. I do wish the Speaker would give someone else a turn here. I grow awfully tired of so much spice.” He lounges against the wall beside her. “How did the Forsworn fair?”

  
“Quite dead.”

“Ah. Praise Sithis. Although if those barbarians could calm down for a damn second, they would make rather good Siblings, don’t you think?”

She chuckles. “Have you ever actually encountered them? Good luck trying to hold a conversation.”

“Well all I’m saying is that they’re ruthless and we could use some fire.”

“The training doesn’t go well?”

He sighs, crosses and recrosses his arms. “It’s fine. I’m not sure why your Speaker has recruited so many mages but they’ll do. There’s a new blood though, Breton girl who can handle a bow well enough. Even if it is conjured.”

“A conjuration mage? She should be useful.”

Riadriel shrugs noncommittally. The Bosmer was of the opinion that any contract could be completed most efficiently with a bow. Unfortunately for his students and the state of his ego, he was usually right.

“How does Kharrn get on with her initiates?”

“Oh fine, fine. Teaches them useless things with that big hammer of hers, if you ask me. I’d apologize for being so brusque but you knew how I was when you appointed me.” He winks.

Silne rolled her eyes at the man’s typical behavior.

“Well, I thank you anyway for all of your help. Keep it up and I might make you Speaker some day.”

“Certainly, Listener.”

Voices carry down the corridor as Riadriel sets the table and she tends to the sizzling tubers.

Nazir leads the charge of the eclectic little family, a handful of Brothers and Sisters behind him. Their chatter fades as Nazir locks eyes with her. She meets his cold gaze, drawing her shoulders up to appear taller. She knows that she is in the wrong but she won’t let herself be intimidated here in front of the fresh bloods.

“Good morning, Listener.” He sends her a pointed look that conveys _We’ll talk later_ and takes the spoon from her hand. “I’ll oversee breakfast from here.”

As Cicero and the rest of the initiates filter into the main hall, the Black Door groans open. Heads swivel to the top of the stairs where the vampire child descends with delicate footsteps.

“How went the hunt, unchild?” Nazir calls to her, busily cracking eggs.

“Divine.” Babette beams, half of her sweet young face splattered with drying blood. She skips to Nazir and steals a wash rag, dancing out of his grasp when he tries to reach for it. “Good morning Listener!” She dodges the Redguard again, wiping the blood from her face. “You as well, Keeper!” Nazir scowls as she hands him back the bloody rag and seats herself at the head of the table. “I half expected to come back and find that the Speaker had strung you two up in the torture room.”

“That makes two of us.” Silne mumbled under her breath.

“No talk of murder until after breakfast. Which is ready.”

They dine on her potatoes mixed with egg, thick chunks of ham, and goat’s cheese. Bread, fresh sliced tomatoes, and apple-wine rounded out the meal. Silne sat at the end of the table, facing the door (and Mother- for safety’s sake), across from Babette. To her right, Cicero, Nazir to her left. She avoided conversation while she ate. She was ravenous anyway.  

She could feel their eyes on her, all of them. Cicero included.

“I’d like for the Speaker, Keeper and Babette to meet me in the study after the meal.”

~*~

So after they were done and the initiates were hard at work scrubbing the plates, the four of them met in the study.

It wasn’t so much of a room as the landing off of the spiral stairs. Directly adjacent to the training room, Silne had commissioned the guild to put a wall between them. It was wood, rather than stone, with two windows set into it so that one could observe the training sessions. There were three desks along the walls, each overflowing with a sizable collection of books, maps, letters, and all manner of things. Silne’s was, predictably, the messiest.    

She turned her chair around to face the room and the others did the same, Babette dragging over an armchair. Silne didn’t know how to sit. Feign nonchalance? Cross her arms defensively? Grab Cicero and take off for the nearest Draugr crypt? No she was trying to grovel. Her hands rested on her knees, nervously picking at the threadbare peasant's dress. She needed new clothes.  

“Speaker, I know that you are upset with me and you have every right to be.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded and regarded her with that same dark, cold gaze. Silne drew a deep breath.

“It was irresponsible to leave-”

“And dangerous.” Babette interjected amicably.

“...and dangerous. I shouldn’t have reacted that way and I’m sincerely sorry.”

Nazir nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“But our time away has given me time to think. I’m going to accept the contract.”

“Listener.” Cicero warned darkly.

“I understand the risks. I know how dangerous it sounds-”

“Do you?”

“Yes, _Speaker_ , I do. And I know it sounds like a set up but I will remind you that I received this contract from Mother herself and I think that we should have the _faith_ to trust that she would not lead us into a trap.”

“Are we sure that is how the Black Sacrament works? I mean, would the Night Mother just chose to filter out prayers that would work against the Brotherhood? Or does she send them all to you?” Babette asks, still smiling, though Nazir looks murderous and Cicero looks vaguely nauseous.

“Any Black Sacrament performed is heard by Mother. She reports all contracts to the Listener. We’re not taking the contract.”

“That isn’t your decision to make, Keeper. And if you’ll allow me to _finish_. When I first informed you all of the contract, I omitted a few details.”

“For Sithis’ sake, Silne.”

“ _Do not_ use my name Speaker. And I remind you that I had my reasons for keeping this information to myself. I needed time to think.” Silne drew another deep breath, feeling a headache coming on. “Mother specifically said that the contract should be taken by the Listener and the Keeper.”

“NO!” Nazir jumps up, deep voice echoes through the room. “This is more foolish madness than I’ve ever heard out of Cicero. You’re going to get us all killed-”

“Speaker.” Silne said, rising to her feet. She has to crane her neck to meet his eyes but she does her best to look imposing. She speaks calmly. “Mother has given us a task. To disregard it- to _dishonor_ it- breaks the first tenet. Would you have me do this?”

If he were a fire mage, Silne imagine’s Nazir’s glare would’ve set her aflame by now.

“No.” He says through clenched teeth.

“Good.” She sits back down, Nazir doing the same. “I, for one, believe that the Night Mother would not lead us astray, especially after the Brotherhood is flourishing again. I’m not an idiot, _Speaker_ , I know how horribly this can go. Even if the contract isn’t a set-up, we could still be caught or tracked. _However_ , this might also be an opportunity for us to avenge our fallen Brothers and Sisters. That, and remove our greatest threat in Skyrim.”

Silence hung over them as they each considered her words.

“Very well.” Nazir said tightly. “Should you accept the contract, what next?”

Silne looked at Cicero. “We go to Dragon’s Bridge and meet with the agent who performed the Black Sacrament. We eliminate the target. If he truly is corrupt, we find a way to exploit it. Take down the Penitus Oculatus from the inside.”

“And if it’s a trap? If they capture you, torture you, find the Sanctuary, what then?”

“Neither Ci- the Keeper or the Listener would reveal the Sanctuary’s location under torture. And you would be prepared for attack this time.”

“Exactly.” Silne said.

“And if you’re killed?” Babette looks between her and Cicero, worried for the first time in the conversation.

“Mother will chose a new Listener.”

“You would throw you life away, just like that, for a contract?” Nazir’s eyebrows climbed into his head wrap.

“Yes.” Both she and Cicero answered in union.

“Fine. If that’s what you want. I’m ceasing all initiate’s contracts until the two of you are back though. And I swear to Sithis, if this is some hair brained scheme to go off on another adventuring expedition, I will mount your heads on pikes outside the Sanctuary, tenets be damned.”

“Thank you Speaker, we are grateful for your support.” Cicero grinned.

Nazir huffed and left the room, muttering something about “fucking lunatics” and “damned Nord can’t even cook potatoes and think’s she’ll take on the Penitus Occulatis”.

Silne ignored him.

“I can’t say I like it but I know you can handle yourselves. I’d miss you if you were brutally murdered though.”

“Thanks, Babette.”

She smiles sweetly. “Cicero, doesn’t Mother need oiling?”

“No. With the presence of a Listener, Mother’s corporal body is sustained.”

“Sure but don’t you _want_ to go perform the rites or something?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Babette grins at Cicero’s retreating form and turns to Silne with a glint in her eye.   

“So.”

“What Babette.”

“The Night Mother really wanted you two, specifically, to do the contract? Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She grins, resting her chin in her tiny palm. Babette had the face of a ten-year old and the soul of an aged woman who knew exactly how to get under everyone’s skin.  

“What are you getting at Babette?”

“Nothing. It’s just, you two sure do spend a lot of time together.”

“The Keeper is an adapt traveling companion. Our fighting styles are very compatible.”

“Oh, that’s all that’s compatible?” She snickers.

“Babette!” Silne admonishes against the rising heat in her cheeks.

“Oh, come on Silne. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

“I- I… It’s not like that!”

“Mmhmm, tell yourself that. You know, he’s rather handsome when he’s not singing or wearing that stupid cap.”

“Goodbye, you little monster.”

“Bye Listener! Kill well and often!”

~*~  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I hallucinated that "A Farewell to Arms" had this epilogue scene where Henry wakes up but is in that inbetween of awake and not awake and doesn't remember what's going on and I wanted to use that for inspiration for the first paragraph so I took out the book and it's not there?? Did I have a fever dream about an alternate ending to a Hemingway title?  
> Anywho, the dialogue in this was a blast to write. I love these characters. Also I realized after the fact that when I used fantasynamegenerator for Riadriel and Kharrn's names that I literally named a character Karen. Like now she has to go around, smashing people with her warhammer and asking to talk to the manager.  
> Babette ships it :)  
> How is everyone's life? It rained so hard today that my road flooded.


	8. Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AegrosDecending and Parn, I love you guys.  
> End note is going to be long and let y'all know what my thoughts/plans are for this fic. Thanks for reading my dudes!

~*~

 

The last time the Keeper had departed from the Sanctuary had been a flight, a flurry of movement and then the Black Door closing softly behind them in the dead of night. It had felt very much like sneaking out without their parent’s permission.

This departure is boring. Packing, planning, running everything by Nazir as though he is the authority instead of the Night Mother’s Listener. Ridiculous.

Cicero sits at the main table, his curled boots kicked up on top of it, writing. Always writing now. If it’s not writing in the new leather journal he’s purchased, it’s writing in the heavy volume Silne bought him in Solitude. It’s several hundred pages at least with a thick leather cover the color of ebony. He’s nearly filled it halfway by now. The front covered he’s embossed with leather working tools, hours spent carefully crafting the handprint encircled by five skulls and wrapped in Nightshade. It’s been a good hobby to learn.

The interior is chapters upon chapters written in fine, neat print. The words he knows well. Better than his own thoughts in the journals. They are the words that anchored him to Nirn for long years hiding beneath Cheydinhal.

The Keeping Tomes (along with his early journals) were lost when Falkreath fell. And, while the position wasn’t necessarily needed now with a Listener in place, Silne was adamant that he should continue his role as Keeper. He could be away from Mother for extended periods as there was no worry that her body would decay, but it was an act of honor and reverence to perform the rites. And, Silne had said, she wanted him to remain a part of the Black Hand, a place of honor and respect.

It was still odd to have the initiates look up to him. Even stranger to adhere to the Old Ways of the Black Hand keeping their names concealed. With Cicero’s manner of speaking it had been nearly impossible when the practice was first put into place. 

They were part of the reasons why he didn’t resist when Silne wanted to leave. He let her believe that he couldn’t refuse the opportunity to go raise hell across Skyrim, or that he couldn’t say no to her, but in truth he was often as eager to escape the Sanctuary as she was. Not that he had lost any loyalty to the Brotherhood in recent years. It was only that the place had once been his and now it was overflowing with new faces, most young, enthusiastic, and he was struggling to remember how to fit into that again. The Siblings were nice, acknowledged his as those in Falkreath never had, but he liked it better when it was just the two of them.

It had been stupid, one might even say _foolish_ , to take off when the Brotherhood was prospering again, when contracts (contracts with importance, not the petty nonsense the Pretender had been dishing out) were pilling up and the Brotherhood was finding itself entagled with Skyrim’s politics. But Silne needed to learn on her own. For all of her skill with a blade and thoughtful guidance of the organization, she was still new to all of this. And if she needed to escape every once and a while, Cicero would not complain. He would follow, not out of a blind sense of duty as Keeper, but because he wanted to.

He raises his eyes from the words he’s scratching into the page, a recipe for a ceremonial oil, to half-listen to the conversation around him.

“...was born in Evermor. As soon as I was of age, I started traveling Tamriel. Mostly collecting Daedric artifacts, exploring ruins. But I wanted somewhere to belong, doing something I enjoyed. And… viola.” The dark-haired Breton spread her arms enthusiastically though her voice was level and dull as though the whole thing bored her. 

“Well, if you’re as skilled a mage as Riadriel tells me, and you honor the Tenants, we’re happy to have you.”

Cicero grins to himself, remembering long ago when he had thought she would make such a wonderful Listener, had sat before the coffin late into the nights telling Mother so, pleading for her to make it so. She was too kind to poor Cicero sometimes.

“Something amusing you, Keeper?” Her voice pulls him out of the memories.

“Listener, what do you call a dog that has no legs? A drag! Oh, that’s a good one.”

She rolls her eyes and tosses an apple at his head which he catches easily. Even as she turns back to the Breton girl, a smile tugs at her lips, and maybe something like relief on her face. He knows his sour mood yesterday had worried her.

“I apologize, Auriele, that your first contact will be delayed. We’ll do our best to return quickly, won’t we Keeper?”

 _I’m not the one who delays us_. “Certainly Listener.” 

 

~*~

 

Silne leaves the newest member in the main hall to resume her packing. Her knapsack has been restocked with provisions; potions, bread, dried meats, a handful of fruits and vegetables, a collection of junk that needs to be sold should they come across any vendors. The Blade of Woe is honed and polished, resting at her hip. Sadly she is out of arrows.

The torture chamber is empty, existing only for the occasion that they should needed it. However, to the left of the room, a large archway leads to an area beyond.

The building of the forge had been more laborious and costly that Silne had imagined. Excavating the rock and ice had been difficult enough on its own, but then came the onerous task of hauling the rubble out to the surface. Members of the Thieves Guild had been hard at work on it for days, filling the Sanctuary and eating their food. And it had cost a lot. Even more to ensure all of them kept their big mouths shut.

But the result was impressive to say the least. A large circular forge occupied the center of the chamber, flanked by several workbenches and tanning racks with a massive grindstone in the back.

Predictably, a sandy blond head is bent over the forge, working the bellows. He doesn’t hear her come in.

“Mirgelf!” The Nord continues working away, pausing only to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Mirgelf!” She tries a little louder.

He turns and ceases what he’s doing when he catches sight of her.

“Listener.” A big, warm smile stretches across his face until his upper lip is lost in his mustache and he looks as though his face might split.

“How have you been?”

“Hard at work. I imagined you might come to see me before you left. Here.” He goes to the far wall, which is a patchwork of weapons racks and pegs holding every manner of armament. From a peg he retrieves a sleek black quiver with silver buckles and etching, identical to the empty one she trades him for. It’s filled to the brim with jet black arrows, razor sharp and finely made.

“Thank you Mirgelf.”

From this side of the room, her voice carries stronger, loud enough to be heard by the person sharpen blades across the forge.

The noise at the grindstone grinds to a halt (Nazir’s poor sense of humor was rubbing off on her) and a tuft of dark hair emerges.

“Listener, you’re back!” Aventus runs at her, throwing his arms around her as per his usual greeting.

“I’m back, though not for long. Have you been behaving?” She touches his hair affectionately.

Aventus rolls his eyes. Silne had to remember that he was coming up on his teenage years and the child she had once met was slowly becoming a young man.

“Yes, I’ve been behaving. And learning a lot from Babette, too! She’s been teaching me to enchant things and- Oh!” He disappears behind the forge in a flurry and returns with a simple brown paper package. “This is for you.” He averts his eyes as he offers it, suddenly bashful. “I made it. Well no I didn’t, Mirgelf, did. I enchanted it- though Babette helped but… here.”

She takes it and carefully unties the ribbon holding the paper together. Beneath is something dark and leather, the surface gleaming with freshly applied oil and something else- something that hummed and glowed faintly though more ethereal than corporal. She lets the paper fall away to reveal a new set of armor, cut exactly as the old, but darker, the bodice a deep blood red.

“It gives you extra stamina. And makes you resistant to poison. I thought those might be helpful.”   

He waits for her approval, bouncing on the balls of his feet and worrying his bottom lip.

“Aventus, it’s incredible, thank you.”

He beams. “Thanks, Ma- Listener.” His cheeks redden.

“Tell you what, when I get back, we’ll go hunting together. How does that sound?”

She leaves the forge to the sound of Aventus and Mirgelf excitedly making preparations to fit him for a hunting bow and quiver. 

 

~*~

 

Having an intended hour to leave is difficult where there are no windows in the Sanctuary. A problems Silne would like to correct once they’d taken a few more contracts and restocked the coffers. Delvin and his lot were expensive.

They’d once been _her_ lot but she doesn’t think of them that way now. Her affiliation with the guild, as well as Kit, were dead.

Living underground was annoying. Enclosed, secure, but annoying. Silne slept poorly, waking more than once to journey outside to see if the stars had turned to morning light.

They hadn’t. She was restless, nervous, and frustrated. And tired of being all of those things. Giving up on sleep, she opts to sit on the raised dais where Mother’s sepulchre stood. She was drenched in candlelight, as always. Even when Cicero was gone from the Sanctuary, some devoted initiate kept them burning. My, how far they had come. 

Silne found herself humming to pass the time and chuckled realizing how much the jester had rubbed off on her. Then her mind flits to Babette’s words from earlier and heat rushes up to her ears. Sure, they _did_ spend a lot of time together, not that it meant anything that Babette implied. And he was her closest friend, why shouldn’t she enjoy his company?

Still cursing the vampire child, she stalks silently to the bedchambers, knowing he wouldn’t be sleeping either. He’s not. She can hear him humming through the door. 

She knocks softly to no response. Sighing, she shoulders open the door.

“Cicero? Oh.”

She curses herself for blushing at seeing Cicero bare-chested, sitting on his bed, working the ebony dagger with a whetstone. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him without a shirt on before. He’d been bleeding to death, sure, but whatever.

“Can’t sleep?” He meets her gaze, grinning like a Kahjit.

She’d like to wipe the smirk off of his face, and maybe cut her own ears off too while she’s at it. They’re so hot, and she knows they’re red and curse Babette for ever planting these thoughts in her head.

Her fault too for the definition in his musculature, climbing mountains and engaging every hostile foe in their path had evidently been good for him. The freckles that dusted his cheeks continues lower, concentrated across the top of his shoulders. 

“No I can’t sleep.” She clears her throat and sits at the little table in the corner.

“Mirgelf’s outdone himself.” He gestures to her.

She looks down at the new armor that fit like a glove. “He did. Aventus enchanted it.”

Cicero grinned, as fond of the boy as she was. “Hopefully we’ll get to test it.”  
“Maybe. I only want to meet the contact. We’ll come back here before we complete the contract.”  
“Whatever you say Listener.” He stands and sheathes the blade.

She averts her eyes. “We should take a carriage in Dawnstar. I want to get this done as quickly as possible.”

He rummages in a chest at the end of the bed and pulls out a cuirass, donning it as if he’s done it a thousand times before. Which he no doubt has. The armor is far older than the set she discarded earlier and far more well maintained. He oiled the thing as diligently as the Night Mother. Over top, he wears simple breeches and shirt, nondescript. She has opted to hide the Brotherhood's armor beneath her traveling cloak rather than any of her threadbare peasant’s dresses. Winter was upon them after all.

There was no point in waiting around since they were both up and ready. Shouldering their packs, they slip outside the door where Silne internally curses again.

Babette walks down the hall towards her room, throwing Silne a knowing glance at having watched her come out of his room.

“Have fun you too.” Resolving to replace all of her alchemy ingredients with garlic, they leave.  

 

~*~

The carriage driver is the predictable ilk Cicero has come to expect from the people of Dawnstar. Cicero was only some poor lowly farmer, or miner, or whatever, trying to get to Dragon Bridge with his cousin. For reasons. What had Silne said? Visiting family?

Yes, visiting family, she insisted. When the Nord questioned the Imperial’s presence on a family visit to the west of Skyrim, Silne had begun an artfully spun web of an explanation. Cicero was the son of her mother’s sister whose husband had moved to Skyrim for the trading in Windhelm. And they were from Windhelm, obviously, Stormcloak through and through. They’d taken a ship from the Windhelm docks to Dawnstar and now they needed safe passage.

He bought it. Like a fish on the end of a shiny luer, he was caught. All it had taken was the mention of that great oaf Ulfric. 

Cicero sat with his arms crossed, trying not to roll his eyes or outright _end_ the insufferable carriage driver as they bumped along. He simply would not _shut_ _up_. The whole ride around the swamps of Hjaalmarch, he prattled away about the Nord’s right to Skyrim and Talos and Sovingard and blah blah blah. Politics, always politics. Stupid Nords. He was glad Silne and Mirgelf were not like this.

He was as tired of getting entangled into such business as Silne was. No, offended was more of an appropriate term. Offended that only a few months ago the Brotherhood has been called on to eliminate a target by a Stormcloak officer. It was for some diplomat of the Empire, Cicero didn’t know. Nazir had done the contract himself, his last actually, since becoming Speaker. Cicero didn’t think that Nazir would start dressing as a diplomat though and take on his persona. At least he hoped not.

Silne smiled along and kept up conversation, slipping into the role as seamlessly as she always did. A master at Speechcraft, that one.

Mercifully, they took a break in Morthal at midday. While the driver was purchasing his lunch at the inn, Cicero lamented his fate to Silne.

“We could walk and get there by tomorrow morning. And Cicero will keep what is left of his sanity.”

She laughs despite herself and sends a well-aimed kick to his shin.

“We could, _cousin,_  and what would Olafur think? Two travelers setting off on their own? I hear these parts are dangerous.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fiiiine. But can we at least kill him when we get there?”

“I’ll think about it.”

 

They don’t kill him when they arrive at the great stone bridge near nightfall. Cicero sulks in his seat, thoroughly put out when Silne shook her head ever so slightly at him. All business, no fun.

The horse falters and shys when asked to place a single hoof on the great structure spanning the Karth River. After a bit of encouraging he took them across, breaking into a nervous trot as he went beneath the dragon’s head in the center. Safely on the other side, Silne pays the driver with a great many thanks and Cicero’s fingers itch beside his dagger.

The dreadful man made matters worse by purchasing a room at the inn. So rather than a bed and a hot meal, the pair hunkered down in the trees behind the Penitus Oculatus outpost. 

Eating hard bread and dried horker meat, they watch the Agents come and go from the building, each looking identical in their steel armor. Not that they even knew who or what they were looking for. 

Cicero chanced to look at the woman beside him. She was picking her bread into little pieces, letting them fall to the ground, and staring absently at the outpost. Worried. Vulnerable. Cicero understood the feeling.

He bumped her knee with his and her gaze broke, blinking and startled. He smiled at her reassuringly. 

“Relax. I have a plan.”

 

~*~  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think she was going to walk in on something different? Muahaha >:)  
> Okay so allow me to explain the cluster that is this disorganized mess of a story (that I still love and am proud of regardless).  
> I love writing. I've been writing stories since I could hold a pencil and I've always been so so passionate about wanting to write a novel someday. I've also been really busy, like, my entire life. But I just moved and finished by bachelor's degree and have a fairly stable job and for the first time literally ever; I have free time. So I want to write dammit. I'm also terrified of it though because I've started a lot of fics/ independant stories in the past and I have always given up on them after about five chapters or so. Mostly because I haven't had time or a solid idea that would span a 20+ chapter plot.  
> This fic started as just a one shot because I wrote it for fun and felt like publishing it. Then I wrote more one-shots for fun. Then I kept uploading the non-chronological mess that is the first six chapters even though I'd had a plot for this in my head for a while because I just wanted to keep getting them out there and not leave this abandoned like I've done to so many other poor, defenseless stories. But Silne and Cicero wanted a plot dammit and they deserve it so I'll give them one. Also sorry for the shade but this fandom desperately needs some stories that aren't the questline quote for quote. Like seriously, if I read another of those I will die.  
> But to try to wrap this up: I have time to write now. And even though I don't upload ever day, I do write. And I made a bunch of character maps for all the OCs that now occupy the Dawnstar Sanctuary. Seriously, you haven't even met half of them. I love my children so much.  
> I'm gonna keep posting flashback chapters every once in a while (probably that's what the next one will be) but for the most part we're forging onward with Brotherhood vs. Oculatus. Once all is wrapped up, I might rework the first few chapters into the chronological so it makes more sense. Idk. Thanks for bearing with my nonsense.


	9. A Contract

~*~

There had been other days with other plans, before. Before their lives quite literally went to the Void in a handbasket. Hushed whispers in the Night Mother’s chapel, secret meetings at Dead Man’s Drink. Her siblings had thought something very different going on. She never paid their rumors any mind.

Plans had hinged on Silne’s best skill, one honed since she was a begging orphan child, approaching the richest looking homes in Markarth and waiting on their stoop. Doing jobs for the Thieves Guild and worming her way into grand houses saying how she had lived their once and only wanted to look around. It was getting close to a contract, words sweet and thick as honey until a sudden dagger in the throat. Simply put, she would lie.

She would lie as she had in Falkreath, befriending her Siblings and rooting out their weak points, sowing seeds of doubt. Those plans had been _hers_ , trying to overthrow Astrid bloodlessly. Trying to preserve the lives of the last assassins of the Brotherhood of Tamriel. Pity how it all worked out.

This plan was likely to go much better. And besides, there had been a carefully measured change in Cicero since Falkreath and, barring any outright blasphemy of the Night Mother, she trusted him to keep his composure.

So, as always, the plan hinged on lies and deceit. Silne wondered (not for the first time) if their matron truly was the incarnation of Mephala and, if so, if she didn’t absolutely delight in her children’s actions.

For now they lean against the hillside in Dragon’s Bridge, waiting for dawn. Silne feels anticipation run cold and jittery through her veins. Tomorrow, all would be revealed.

 

~*~

 

The first step, ironically, was to make their presence in Dragon’s Bridge abundantly known. 

At her quizzical look when the idea was proposed, Cicero had practically sang the words to her. _The closer you are to danger, the farther you are from harm._ Why would anyone expect the two people stomping through town to be a pair of assassins?

If only their stomping didn’t involve _actual_ work. Honest-to-Shor labor that didn’t involve killing or stealing and it had been _Cicero’s_ idea.

Their story had changed from what they fed Olafur, that insufferable carriage driver. Dragon’s Bridge was, after all, an imperial town. So they were not travelling from Windhelm, but rather stopping in the little village on their way to Solitude. Which required waiting until Olafur left that morning before they approached Horgeir, inquiring if there was any work to be done for a bit of coin. 

The Nord eagerly gave his assent, “Working hard gives a man reason for drinkin’ hard.” Silne filed that bit of information away for later. 

That left them running the mill while Horgeir disappeared into his home with a bottle of mead. 

The whole situation would have been very _funny_ if she were not sweating so much. And if her nervousness still wasn’t coiling in her gut like a serpent. Still, she can’t help but grin in amusement as the Night Mother’s Keeper loads yet another log onto the conveyor while she operates the lever. 

However, from where they do their dismal work at the saw mill, there is a perfect view across the village of the various homes and establishments. Particularly the front entrance of the Penitus Oculatus outpost building. As the morning drags on, a bit of activity catches Silne’s eye.

At 11:00 a contingent of soldiers appears on the northward road. Their steel armor gleams in the morning sun, the red of their tunics bright against the brown and green countryside. It is nothing that the man and woman at the mill stop their work to watch them, especially as the locals do the same.

There are eight of them, six men and two women, all dressed the same, nearly indistinguishable beneath their armor. Their shoulders are squared, steps measured. Silne squints against the sun to look more carefully at their faces. All but one of them stares straight ahead, except for the man in the back who glances at the villagers as he passes, as though he is looking for something.

“They’re somethin, ain’t they?” Horgeir calls up to them, gesturing at the party with his bottle. “C’mon, rest a spell! Can’t work every minute a your life.”

Silne turns to Cicero with a quizzical eyebrow. He shrugs.

They descend to where Horgeir is seated on a stump. “Do they always come through at this time?” Silne asks innocently.

“Aw sure. Punctual, them. ‘Specially after old Titus Mede got it. The regiments switch out this time a day once a week. Go up to Solitude to protect Tullius I’d imagine. Not anybody else they could concern theirselves with anymore, eh?” 

“Does another group go out today, then?”

“Sure do. It is somethin’ to watch. Not that I ever gave much thought to the war what with runnin’ the mill and all. Anyway, how’s about some lunch?”

“We’d be much obliged if it’s not too much trouble.” Cicero responds.

Horgeir laughs. “Oh it is trouble for my wife. S’why I usually eat at the inn, c’mon.”

 

The Four Shields Tavern is nearly empty at noon save for the innkeeper, a waitress, and a few guards who had come in with the regiment from Solitude. The young girl seats them, eyeing the pair of strangers warily. She hastens off after getting their order. Horgeir leers at her retreating form.

“Excuse me.” Silne pushes away from the table. Cicero shoots her a quizzical look, part curious, part pleading with her not to abandon him to make small talk with the drunken miller. Silne walks with measured steps up to the front counter and lounges against it while the girl pours their drinks.

“Have you worked here long?”

The girl startles, ale sloshing over the side of a mug. “Um, about a year or so. Faida is teaching me the trade.”

“The outpost must keep you busy.”

The girl’s doe-eyed fear turns sour. She wrinkles her nose and snorts. “I’ll say. They practically live here.”

“Do they ever give you trouble?”

“I- well, not if Faida’s here. And my father always walks me home…”

“Ah well,” She reaches into her cloak and produces a steel dagger, pushing it across the bar soundlessly. “Take care of yourself. Anyone who bothers you in particular, any that act strangely?”

Her eyes widen, flickering between the weapon, the drunken miller in the corner, and the hard grey eyes of the woman in front of her. With less hesitation than one might’ve expected, she tucks the dagger beneath the counter.

“Everyone gets a little rowdy when they’re drunk.” 

“Sure, sure.”

“Why do you want to know anyway?”

Silne gives her a wide, easy smile. “I worked at an inn when I was your age.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I can help you know who to look out for. The drunkards aren’t the problem. You need to  watch for strange characters, people who seem out of place in a room full of people. Anyone like that around here?”

She looks intently at the floorboards and her eyes flicker briefly to one of the small single room off the main hall.. “Come to think of it, in the past few weeks… There’s this man, he’s never spoken to me actually, but he’s always struck me as odd. He never drinks actually, usually sits in one of the rooms by himself. He’s always looking at me, or the door, and he’s always here when the courier comes.”

“Yes that sounds like just the type.”

“It’s odd though that someone so strange should be an agent.”

Bingo.

“Hmm. I suppose it is. I should return to my friends. Keep your weapon and your wits about you.”

“Oh yes, thank you! My name is Vivienne by the way.” 

Silne accepts the plate of bread and cheese, along with the mugs of ale that the girl has been preparing while speaking. “Thank you, Vivienne.” 

 

~*~

 

They, Silne and Cicero (Horgeir being past his usefulness and too deep in his cups to be served anyway), return to the inn after dark. It is considerably fuller and stinks of sweat and beer and embers. Cicero sighs resignedly. Crowds could often be as claustrophobic as silence.

Silne leaves him at a back table. It is a moment of deja vu from earlier, her leaning against the bar and talking to the serving girl. But it’s another memory too, reaching back through the years. Conspiratorial meetings at the inn in Falkreath, hiding under Astrid’s nose. And, just as back then, Silne seems to be oblivious to the men that go out of their way to pay her attention. Cicero would love to stand on the table and yell to the agent standing next to her that he was looking so lecherously at the _Listener_ of the _Dark_ _Brotherhood_ and she could _dice_ him into _pieces_ faster than he could get his clumsy sword out of its scabbard. Cicero scans the room for the man Silne had described to him, eager for this whole charade to be over with.

 

~*~

**(Evening Star 4E 202)**

 

She slipped a note beneath his door that afternoon.

 

_Meet me in Dead Man’s Drink at 8._

 

_-S_

 

The inn is more crowded than he’s ever seen it but of course it is, it’s Fridas. The place is packed with just the sort of people neither of them like to associate with; big burly Nords talking loudly about politics and honor and feats of strength and all manner of things Cicero doesn’t give a skeever’s ass about.

He waits in a chair by the fire where it is too hot and there are too many people. People who would not slosh ale on Cicero’s boots if they knew the dozen ways he was imagining slicing them to pieces. Silne is late but he knew better than to expect anything else. She sees him when she enters but heads to the counter anyway. She is a Nord after all. It seemed against her birthright to enter an inn without imbibing at least a little.

The same inebriate from earlier who couldn’t keep his drink within the confines of its container, approaches Silne as she worms through the crowd.

“What’s a lass like you doing her all alone, hmm?” Of course he can hear them. He had not spent care years sharpening his senses for those skills to leave him when the better part of his sanity did.

“I’m here with my friend.” She answers curtly.

“Ahh and where is she?”

“ _He’s_ waiting for me. Excuse me.”

When she reaches him she practically hauls him out of his chair and into one of the adjoining rooms. His own sour mood is improved by her obvious frustration. It is only that she is so very tiny and funny when she is angry. At least to him. Not likely to people she kills.

Cicero snickers. “A pretty woman comes to a crowded bar alone and is confused when men pay attention to her.” He laughs again. “And she says Cicero is crazy.” 

“Don’t you start too. I almost couldn’t even make it here, Astrid’s been hounding my every step lately. She’s had me running all over half of Skyrim on contracts for beggars and madmen.”

“A madman is not a worthy target?”  
“When he is living in a hut, morning the death of his sister? No. I wouldn’t be surprised if Astrid put the contracts out herself only to insult me.”

“Of course Listener! Vile, conniving harlot, if Cicero were not so wholely devoted to the tenants…”

Silne places a hand on his arm to stop his pacing and draw him back to the present.

“Anyway, it doesn’t change anything. Let’s sit, we have much to discuss.”

“Yes, Listener.” He says absently and sits across from her. “You do the talking and Cicero will do the listening for a change.” He places his chin in his hands and watches her eagerly. 

 She sighs heavily. “I talked to nearly everyone when I had a chance. I believe Arnbjorn is an entirely lost cause.”

Cicero rolls his eyes. _Obviously_. Dogs don’t easily swear off loyalty to their masters.

“I have hopes for Veezara. Being raised as a Shadowscale, especially the _last_ shadow scale, he has a sense of honor about his work. It shouldn’t be hard to make him realise that allegiance to Astrid goes against that. Festus has already given me his full support in confidence.”

Cicero nodded. The cranky wizard and the lizard (he really should come up with a rhyme about them) were the most tolerable of his new siblings.  

“It seems as though Babette would be eager to return to the old ways but she is firmly loyal to Astrid and I can’t figure out why.”

“She’s bored.”

“What?”

“She. Is. Bored. Is Listener listening?”

“What do you mean?”

“The unchild has been in the Brotherhood since the time of the Oblivion Crisis. Her loyalty to the Pretender is a diversion for amusement. She will return to the old ways.”

“I hope you’re right. Nazir and Gabriella will be difficult. I think the best thing for me to do now is to show Astrid that I have no intention of taking over. We shouldn’t be seen together in the Sanctuary. I’m going to do a bit of groveling as well. We’ll be in a lot better position if I can get back in Astrid’s good graces.”

Cicero slams his palms down on the table in protest. “NO. The Listener should not _grovel_ when she is second only to Mother herself-“

“ _Quiet_!” The walls of the inn were not thick.”I will do what I must. Please, Cicero, trust me.”

“Of course Listener.”

 

~*~

**Sun’s Dusk 4E 204 (Present)**

 

Tavern sounds- voices, the intermittent clinking of cutlery on plates, the scrape of chairs, a lute in the corner. Ordinary. The man sitting alone in the single room to the right of the bar? Decidedly not ordinary. 

The innkeeper’s name is Faida and she chats amiably as Silne watches the man from the corner of her eye. He is dressed in the uniform as they all are, but rather than drinking himself silly, he sits unaccompanied in a straight backed chair, alternating between flipping through a book and sending furtive glances out into the crowd. Forty something, Imperial, piercing eyes and a straightness to his spine that suggested he thought himself better than the common rabble of the inn’s patrons. She understood why Vivienne would’ve noticed him as particularly odd.

“Does he ever order anything?” Silne asks the girl. Vivienne is occupied behind the bar, hurried in her movements and sloshing beer from the half dozen tankards she holds. Sline suspects this is due more to a general nervousness than rush over the surplus of customers.

“Yeah just bread and cheese, water.” The girl’s discomfiture increases as the man glances up at her, as though he knew they were speaking of him.

“I could bring it to him, if it bothers you so.”

Vivienne’s large brown eyes meet hers earnestly. “You don’t have to! I’ll have to learn to deal with difficult patrons if I’m ever to learn to run an inn!” Faida smiles, pleased by the girl's honest attitude. 

“And you will.” Silne said kindly, smiling gently over the counter. She leans closer, whispering. Faida has turned away to help a customer. “But I can handle this one for now.”

The girl places a wooden plate laden with the usual tavern fair into Silne’s eager hands.  This was going very well indeed.

 

He watches her from the moment she steps away from the counter, sharp eyes asking a silent question and there can be no doubt that he is their object. She places the plate in front of him, still maintaining eye contact and silent slips a single Nightshade from the folds of her dress and places it on the plate. His eyes briefly acknowledge the token and then flicker back to her. She does not shrink under his evaluation, only waits.

“Your mother has sent you, then?”

It is clever wording, she admits. Were he mistaken about her identity it could be easily forgotten, common enough to be overheard by anyone without causing alarm, yet unmistakable as to its meaning. 

“Yes, she has sent her child unto you.” _For the sins of the unworthy…_

“I believe, when we spoke, I asked of _children_ to be sent. Where is your brother?”

Cicero emerges into the room like a spectre, silently closing the door behind him. The man glances between them, nods once, and releases a terse breath.

“I have been waiting for weeks.” Of all the things Silne might’ve expected this mysterious, austere man to say, that had not been it. She laughs freely.

“If you are looking for diplomacy and punctuality in such an organization, I suggest you look elsewhere and not waste my time.”

She visibly bristles and Silne grins at unsettling him so easily. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, scowling impressively.

Enjoying Silne’s mirth, Cicero cannot help but contribute to the man’s dissatisfaction. “Our Mother, being dead and all, does not have as much concern for clocks and pocket watches as soldiers do.” 

The still-yet unnamed agent glowers at his assassin kinsman. Though their birthplace was the same, there could not be more difference between the two men. Where Cicero bore the fine features and coloring of Colovian descent, the agent was clearly Nibinese, dark, and stank of hauteur.

“Well?” Silne prompted when he remained silent.

“You are not what I expected.” He sneered.

The man, in one moment, had been reclining in his chair, feeling he had the upper hand in this situation. In the next, the woman had his arms pinned with surprising strength and the man had places an ebony dagger in dangerous proximity to his jugular.

“Now,” the woman spoke pleasantly as though they were old friends, “shall we all take each other seriously and conduct our business?”

The agent glared menacingly at the pair but relented and soon they were all seated around the small table.

“I need someone killed.”

 _Yes I assumed._ But Silne would not voice her sarcasm as it would get them nowhere with this one.

“Rather I need multiple someones killed, and specifically as well. I believe I will be able to compensate you more than adequately.”

“Very well, what are your terms?” Silne was genuinely eager but the danger that this was a set-up by the Penitus Occulatus had not yet been disproven. 

The man stood and went to the nightstand to retrieve a satchel. Silne and Cicero exchange furtive glances but neither perceived any danger thus far.

He drew a stack of papers out of the satchel and began neatly arranging them on the table. Some appeared to be instructions, some were sealed, others appeared to be letters, maps, blueprints. Silne’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline. The man retook his seat.

I now must divulge some personal information in order to describe the purpose and extent of my application.”

“Of course, if you protect our identities, we shall do the utmost to protect yours. The Brotherhood is not without honor.”

He nodded brusquely. “My name is irrelevant. What is important is that I am the second of an Imperial noble. There are three men in line who stand in the way of my family’s ascension to the throne.”

 _Second son with three in line before him?_ Silne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Yet, she couldn’t detect any desperation in the eyes of the calm, exacting man before her. In fact, his obvious forethought in the manner recommended him and her intrigue was again piqued.

“My object is not in gaining that throne, but in my brother doing so. You see, he is a stupid and simple man who is more interested in the gossip of court, grand balls, and Colovian brandy than he is in political pursuits. He also trusts me implicitly. You see, my brother as Emperor has many benefits and not only for myself. The Empire is weak. My eldest cousin in line is sickly, and married these ten years without children. His own brother is a general but he is known to sympathize with the Thalmor. My next cousin-”

Silne cut him off even as she saw the sudden first sign of animation in the man.

“I care not for politics or the state of the Empire. Who do you wise to die?”

Sighing, but with more energy than previously, he continued. “My cousins, the three of them. Their names, addresses, and further details are included in these envelopes. I do not, however, want it to be known to be the work of the Brotherhood. The suspicion on my brother and I would be obvious. It is not, however, out of the question for squabbling to break out between them. The General is eager to take his brother’s birthright and none of them have ever been great friends. Assassination orchistrated privately among the family is nearly expected. I only want to ensure that it happens.”

“Very well.” Silne responds simply, watching him. He grows uneasy as the silence stretches.

“You’ll do it then?”

“Sir. You must realize how it looks, you summoning us here.”

He looks truly bewildered and the scrutinizing expression reasserts itself over his face. 

“I made no attempt to disguise my intentions.”

“No, I don’t reference the contract.” She waved dismissively at the stack of parchment between them. “You, sir, are a part of, and surmising from the quality and cut of your uniform, and an _officer_ of an organization that has hunted and killed my family.”

He crossed his arms reflexively. “I was on leave in Cyrodiil when Falkreath was destroyed.”

“Do you attest that this summoning was not a ruse to draw us here? That there are not guards waiting to ambush us on the other side of that door?” 

He looked positively incensed that she had suggested it. “I have been accused of many things but duplicity is not one of them. I was prepared for you to doubt my sincerity, but not my intention. Here.”

From another satchel he drew a very large, and evidently very heavy coin purse. He placed it on the table and then on top of that placed his own signet ring which positively glittered in the candle light.

“That is a down payment. But I promised that you would be compensated more than adequately. I have not been blind to the perils your organization has faced in recent years.” Silne’s eyes briefly sought her companion who had remained silent and intent during the course of the conversation. “And I do not believe that the injuries you have received have been justified. Not for Titus Mede the Second, obviously, but to many rules and people of power, an ancient and efficient assassin’s organization is invaluable. Cyrodiil has suffered at the loss. Many have turned to private institutions that are notably less reliable, they perform botch jobs, abandon contracts, and are known to charge exorbitant rates for lack of better competition. In short the Brotherhood is a necessary evil, and upon my brother’s reign with my as his primary advisor, I would have it quietly reinstated and you would see your enemies with the Occulatus disappear.”

 

~.~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'm back.


End file.
